Rabbi Ribeye

Oh, a sidebar . . . I had become so nauseously wise by the tender age of 15, that I would smirk from afar as I watched uninitiated Yeshiva classmates chugalug bottles of extra-sweet Schapiro's Malaga on Purim and Simchas Torah, knowing that it would make them reaaaaaal sick before it would gain them any spiritual ecstasy. Then there was my Lubavitcher friend who got so snockered on vodka (Lubavitchers drink only "white" liquor) one Simchas Torah that he babbled a bunch of pastoral confidentialities at 100 decibels . . . and no one could shut him up. The Rebbetzin was so angry that she locked him out of the house, and he had to dry out face down on their front lawn.

One caveat about my mother and Xenofoodia -- perhaps the exception to prove the rule: My dad had been hospitalized. On the way back from visiting him, I coaxed my mother to join me for dinner at a local Thai bistro. Despite her initial reluctance, she went absolutely nuts for the meal, particularly the pad see ew and choo chee pla. Her epitaph on the dinner, though, was, "Your father would never stand for this." spoken with a deeply satisfied smile.

Amen, Amen, AMEN, my friend! Those silly "hotter-than-hot" hot-sauce shoppes in places like New Orleans are nothing but tourist traps for the camera-clicking crowd who want the folks back home to believe that the quality of Cajun/Creole rises in tandem with its heat quotient. The real intensity of hot sauce is a little like the locker-room prating about sexual prolificacy: Those who boast the loudest rarely get it. Those who keep it to themselves do not have to boast; they are the real lotharios. . . . and no, that is NOT written in the Talmud . . . I think.

schmaltz (OK, you satisfied?)

Honored by your comment, O Great Flutist. (Why can I not get the immortal Zamfir out of my mind when I see "Pan" and "flute" in the same posting? ) Many tales to tell of Uncle Harry, the horseradish legacy being the only culinary one. Ya want eccentric? Harry was also the man who attempted to practice do-it-yourself orthodontia. Then there were Cousins Penny the Nearly Bohemian and Shirley the Red. More meiselach to follow.

Whenever I can get my mind clear (freshly grated horseradish may do that quicker than my daily cocktail of Effexor and Lamictal), I will regale you in stories of my uncle Harry, the Bootleg Horseradish Czar of the Old Northwest Side, who defined Chicago horseradish throughout the New Deal.

Some other "goyishe kop" addenda from my own experiences: 1. Friendly here with a very assimilated guy, CEO of multinational corporation, not involved in anything formally Jewish, but a personal friend. Twisted his arm to come to our seder. Served him chopped liver, and he went nuts with memories of grandparents, childhood, his growing-up years. Initially, said he had to leave at 10 PM, but after the liver, stayed all the way through Chad Gadya, howling the barnyard noises (our minhag/custom) right along with us. Had dinner with us again recently, primed by bait of more chopped liver. Brought with a friend not of the Israelitish persuasion. She had never had chopped liver. He described it to her as "pate . . . but a whole lot better"! [Remniscent of a line attributed to Heinrich Heine: "Long after my grandfather's theology failed me, my grandmother's potato kugel kept me Jewish."] 2. My dad once had to meet at home for an entire day with a client, an older gentleman from the deep, deep South. Lunchtime came and my mother put out an array of coldcuts from Hungarian Kosher. The old guy went wild and commended my mom for "the best hay-um ah've ever tasted"! 3. Once made a glazed veal breast for Shabbos dinner. As was his custom, a minister-friend of mine, a Cherokee, stopped by unannounced mid-Friday afternoon. Spying the well-lacquered veal breast, he bellowed, "What's that ham doing in here?" When I explained to him, he announced, "Cut me a piece of that, huh?" On his first bite, he shouted "HOT DAMN!" and proceeded to finish up half the breast, proclaiming repeatedly, "Better'n ham!" My kids revel in that story, and to this day refer to veal breast as "HOT DAMN," as in, "Daddy, when are you gonna make HOT DAMN again?"

Collector's item. I have also secreted away two bars of Rokeach kosher dish soap, one lettered in orangish-pink, the other in sky-blue, to keep milchig and fleishig from intermarrying. Conversation pieces to bore the grandchildren when I spin romanticized yarns about my long-departed youth, by cracky -- along with the peace armband that I wore to my college graduation and a top-of-the-stove wire-frame toaster, c.1920, from back when bread was really bread and toast was really toast. (That stuff you get today? You call that toast? Feh.) Then I bring out that well-pummeled ancient wooden bowl and hockmesser (chopping knife, proof positive that the Jews also invented the mezzaluna) to illustrate my lecture on how "back then" we used to hand-chop gefilte fish and chicken liver . . . and by that time the kids are as glazed over as a bowl of Victorian sugarplums.

OK, just to see if there is any more life in that dwindling pot o' chicken fat, anyone have reminiscences about faux-schmaltz, Nyafat ("Reach for Rokeach!") or its lesser known competitor, Schmaltz-A-Dige? I have an untouched jar of Nyafat in my pantry. Do you?

Gravlax purists need/ought not read this. I personally vacillate between purist and pragmatist, especially when I get a fairly good deal (everything is relative) on high-quality salmon and find myself putting up 4-5 pounds of gralax at a time. Occasionally, I will take half-a-side or so and convert it (euphemism chosen deliberately, as this may be the equivalent of converting a High-Church Episcopalian to Lubavitcher Chasid) to a most exquisite and delicate pickled lox/lax. The brine is similar to that of the quintessential pickled lox at Russ and Daughters, but the gentle curing of the gravlax makes the results a little sweeter and more velvety. And thus, it may be served nekkid from the brine or napped in the traditional sour-cream sauce. The aggregate processe of grav-ing and pickling the lax/lox take about a week. It requires particular patience for the pickling brine to work its fullest alchemy. You might try it with some red potatoes boiled "in the jacket" or a really good pumpernickel, and of course, a shot of schnapps -- neat from the shotglass. Where do you think we are, Cafe Boulud? L'chayim! Purists, again, may denounce my heresy. Perhaps I can regain your favor in knowing that, ever the traditionalist, I hand-grate the potatoes for my kugel and latkes, and I chop my chicken livers, no Cuisinart within eight furlongs. Y'know, I cannot give the stuff away to my itzy-pitzy family (sushi-snoots though they may be), but my late momma woulda gone nuts for it. Any kindred spirits out there?

Hi, Kiddies! Up for a challenge that might add a little piquancy to a charitable event? Linda is director of Upstate Homeless Coalition of SC, working in 13 counties to develop affordable housing and transition homeless individuals and families into independence. She's again running an hysterical fundraiser, "The Bridesmaid's Ball" on 2/28. Centerpiece of cocktail buffet, dancing, silent auction, entertainment, is "Bridesmaid's Dress from Hell" contest. You can imagine some of that horrific haute couture that finally gets liberated from the closet for one more night of glory. Last year an African American woman won, wearing the dress she did to her cousin's wedding -- Snow White in black-and-green velvet! Well, I am handling a lot of the catering (for 250). Word got out about my gravlax (hey, this IS a small town), and it is in demand. But here's the challenge: Submit your best gravlax recipes to me. I, as a committee of one, will choose 3-4 of the more interesting ones and try to replicate them. Each will be identified by your name, we'll have a tasting-and-voting, maybe we'll rustle you up a little prize (I know what you're thinking: silent auction rejects!) . . . and let the frito misto be damned! Interested? Send your best my way, and I promise you, there will be neither bagel nor cream cheese in a radius of 150 miles. Skol! Jeg elsker deg!

A leeeeeeetle gravlax gloat, so please indulge me . . . In this Stars-and-Bars bubbadom we call Greenville, our next door neighbors, believe it or not, are an incredibly wonderful gay couple, whom Linda and I would easily call our best friends. Again this year we were invited to ring out 2003 (or celebrate Jesus's bris, for the goyophobes among us) at their party. It was a really engaging mix of gay and straight folks, many of whom bear amazing survival tales of growing up gay in klanvilles like Easley, Pickens and Seneca. These are places -- and here I am not kidding -- where incest is more accepted (some would even say welcomed) than homosexuality. But, I digress . . . I prepared an elaborate tray of gravlax (cured with Stoli Limonnaya) for the evening -- garnished with cornichon, sweet pickled peppers, Vidalia onions, eggs (separate whites and yolks, a-duh), capers, fish eggs (I refuse to call the stuff "caviar," although it was pretty damned good, and it was the only kosher variety I could find!), two different olive tapanades, lavash and a variety of toasts (nary a bageleh!), cucumber-Vidalia-dill sauce, Dijon-bitter orange sauce, and freezer-fresh Stoli, neat. Yeah, it's a boast. But, the reaaaaal boast is that the only other substantive food served was a big, on-the-bone ham. By the time the ball had dropped (shut off your sophomorically filthy minds!), the gravlax had disappeared and only one slice of ham was gone. One slice too many, I thought, until I discovered that some benevolent soul had fed it to Ching the Pug (the dog, dammit, not the drag queen). Li-shanah tovah to everyone!

Tommyboy . . . I religiously read your site (uh . . . probably more religiously than I go to synagogue ) and it is all great. But then there is the most Gifted among the gifted. Were I John McLaughlin (an auto-defrocked priest, I hear, ah, a kindred spirit), I would offer you this sage advice . . . MORE Melissa Goodman, LESS Melissa Etheridge, Manchester, Joan Hart, Gilbert, Sue Anderson, George, and every porn queen who has chosen it as her alias. Turn her loose on Atlanta cuisine, Tom. Atlanta ain't seen nothin' like her since Pano met Paul.

No, but being the father of three, at times I would have sold a kid for even less. This is getting waaaaay off track, but you're the one who mentioned "zuzim," which took my pharmacologically-enhanced mind in the direction of one of the world's favorite Messiah-figures who was handed over for 30 pieces of silver: Coupla months ago I wrote a fairly tart satirical diss of Mel Gibson's new flick on Jesus's death. The column got pretty broad distribution via Religion News Service. Ironically, just yesterday I got a call from a local self-named group of "progressive fundamentalist intellectuals" to preside over a private screening of Mel's movie here in l'il Greenville -- home of Bob Jones University. Morbid curiosity and a penchant for bizarre people and situations (although, to date, no whips and chains -- to date, that is) naturally compelled me to respond in the affirmative. To their even greater delight, I pointed out that I was probably the only person in the SC Upstate who was at all fluent in Aramaic -- which comprises more than half the film's script, the rest in classical Greek, can't help you there. (This credential, of course, is equivalent to being the most noted mezzo soprano in Abilene.) Meet ya at Golgotha . . .

Yes, yes, you read my mind. But, that final treat would derive from the assumption that all the guests would be walking/rolling, not driving, home after Shabbos dinner. Alas, this is Greenville, where the term "Shabbos goy" is almost as unknown as "designated driver." Hence, in an act of good neighborliness and lawsuit avoidance, we will cogitate and reminisce over a fine post-bacchanalian slivovitz, but leave the imbibing for an occasion of lesser liability. A plum has never been more nobly exalted . . .

Kinderlach . . . thought you might be interested in my own (serious, believe it or not) contribution to "the night before Christmas": “RABBI SANTA” And in despair, I bow’d my head. “There is no peace on earth,” I said, “For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, goodwill to men . . .” So wrote Henry Wadsworth Longfellow of Christmas Day, 1863, deep in the most depressive shadows of the Civil War. Prophetic of our own times? Or, a timeless commentary on the melancholy that creeps into even the most optimistic mind when it ponders the seemingly unbridgeable chasm between shining ideals and morose daily reality. Who would deny the melancholy? A fool? A saint? Since I am neither, I confess to an edge of holiday depression that neither Miracle on 34th Street nor Effexor could resolve. Worse than ever? Perhaps. 9-11 has certainly left a pall of the morose. Kissing goodbye to my sweetest grandbabies Sophie and Simeon left a tremendous void. And, as the precarious roller-coaster of departing the rabbinate and ensuing long-term unemployment goes, this has been a season of careening personal descent. Hence, the afternoon that I had been ordained to play Santa Claus to 30 homeless children in Anderson County, I was in the foulest mood. I knew that there was no escaping. I do, after all, have the natural gift of girth and full, almost white beard. And, my wife was running the program, so the wages of failure would be painfully high. Thus, a lot of muttering about “How did I get myself into this?” That, and knowing deep down that every “ho-ho-ho!” I would emit would be the shallowest playacting, so as not to disappoint kids who had suffered enough disappointments already. The spirit was “the show must go on”; joviality was way beyond expectation. And then I walked in to the sparse community center. Radiant light shone from 30 sets of widening, innocent eyes: Santa! Santa! Look at my new shoes! Santa! Santa! I’ve been a good girl! Santa! Santa! Can we sing “Jingle Bells”? Santa! Santa! Do you have a present for me? So, I “ho-ho-ho’ed,” and asked each his or her name, and repeated it again and again, and told each one how beautiful or handsome she or he looked, and let them hug me and kiss me and cling to me as long as they wanted. Santa! Santa! You are a funny Santa! Santa! Santa! You are a nice Santa! Santa! Santa! I love you! Each one sat on my lap and posed for a picture and got some presents. Most remarkably, each child was perfectly delighted by the teddy or dolly or little paint-by-numbers kit that I produced from my sack. Even the inevitable socks and underwear, so welcomed by their parents, met with little childish whining – certainly far less than I have ever heard among the children of the jaded upper middle class. Oh, their luminous eyes. Oh, the innocent simplicity. Oh, the sweetness of their souls. Oh, the spontaneity of their joy, so free of self-consciousness. Oh, the purity of their spirit. I found myself, quite unexpectedly, awash in being their Santa, perhaps the only embodiment for these homeless babes of a world in which a warm swaddling of all’s-wellness enveloped them. Lifted from me, at least temporarily, was the nadir of cynicism and self-doubt and disillusionment that had laid me so low. For one sweet, sublime moment, I lost my mind and regained my sanity. Let me tell you, dear friend: It should happen to you. You behold the radiant joy and sheer innocence of homeless babes reveling with their Santa. In a second, tears uncontrollably well up your eyes, and every ounce of your rationality melts away into an overwhelming wave of delicious compassion and love for God’s most fragile gift to an otherwise cold and ruthless world, the gift of life untarnished. And, for a blessed moment or two, your prejudices also melt away, as you partake in a crystalline vision of the world at one with itself, no us-versus-them, no slayers, no slain, no masters, no slaves, no rich, no poor, no oppressors, no oppressed, a common hope, a common destiny. Oh, those kids did a number on me. In exchange for a couple of teddies and a few games, they gave me back the innocence of youth, the simplest joy of childhood, the passion and compassion that midlife and cynicism too easily extinguish. They blessed me with a sense that “peace on earth, goodwill to men” might one day become more than just an iridescent dream. Who could ask for more? [if ya wish, I'll even email ya the picture of me in full Santa regalia! ]

Is this the dish my mother-in-law makes and calls "vinaigrette" (say it mit an ahk-sent please)? Beets, pickles, white beans, etc. The "original" rossel (Yiddish for "rosy, red-colored") was a really malodorous vinegar made by crock-fermenting beets. It was typically prepared before Passover as a substitute for the prohibited grain-based vinegar. This, BTW, is the origin of beet-juice (rossel) enhanced (adulterated?) horseradish, particularly around Passover time, when the chreyn could not be cut with white vinegar. (Albeit that my Uncle Harry, the Bootleg Horseradish Czar of the Old Northwest Side, would never contemplate cutting his chreyn with any adulterant.) A variety of treatments could be applied to the beet residue, after the rossel had been poured off -- everything from making it into borscht, to a sweet-sour salad (my preference), to the pickle-bean salad that you mention, to pitching the noxious mash. Would even work in a variation of salade russe with peas, sweet onions, potatoes, hard-cooked eggs and mayo. Had a delicious version of this for lunch one day seaside in Ashkelon. Ah, what we Yidden could make of a humble beet . . . Just don't bring me full-circle back to cow foot. Shtop zich nisht, ess mit broit. (Don't stuff yourself. Eat it with bread!)

Weequahic salad = pronounced "Week-wake," named for a reknowned diner in NJ, similar to a health salad, cabbage and other veggies in a vinegar-sugar marinade. Gehakte leber = chopped liver Zisse rossel = sweet-sour pickled beet salad We live less than a mile from Bob Jones. Our next door neighbor is a VP. He and his family are extremely friendly, decent people, and we do not -- as the cliche goes -- discuss religion, sex or politics. However, even then I will give them the benefit of the doubt because I am the resident flaming liberal of our local op-ed page, so they know where I stand on all the fundamentalist flashpoint issues. (If you're interested in reading a column I wrote after Dubya spoke at BJU during the 2000 campaign: http://marcmusing.com/whatami_inwalking.html) Despite their wackiness, the folks at BJU are not a monolith. Some of them, like our neighbors, are pretty easygoing folks who, if they condemn you to hell, do it at 40 decibels behind your back. Others, particularly fire-breathing upperclassmen, preach damnation tag-team style from the downtown corners of Main and Coffee nonstop all Saturday afternoon at 140 decibels. Just another cool Shabbos afternoon activity . . . Blessings on your fressings!

A freilachen Chanukah, kinderlach! [You’ve gotta trust me. There is a culinary punchline to all this nattering.] As you’ve probably already figured, I departed the congregational rabbinate about two years ago. It was my decision. The short version of the story is that I left over a variety of policy and ethical issues, no doubt exacerbated by an acute episode of near-fatal bipolarity. (Now, thank God, it is well under control via a daily cocktail of Effexor and Lamictal. Should you wish to read more of the morbid details, you will find them at http://www.marcmusing.com/influences_iam.html.) The aftermath of the departure left its own pall, having transitioned from congregational golden boy to bete noir and suffering the expected isolation. A few weeks ago, Linda and I took a chance that we knew risked bringing on a new wave of depressing isolation. We invited a load of folks to a Shabbat Chanukah dinner at our humble abode next Friday night, not knowing whom or what to expect. Gloriosky! At last count, 45 folks are coming – straight, gay, old, kiddies, Yidden, Presbyterians, a Jesuit, a black Baptist Minister, Hindus, a heavy-metal drummer, and dammit, even a VP at Bob Jones University OK, the important part. What’s on the menu? Gehakte leber garni Sake-roasted turkey Shitake-Marsala sauce Cornbread-challah dressing (in or out of the bird, in the South, it’s always called “dressing”) Chardonnay-poached salmon Cucumber-dill sauce Dijon-Seville orange sauce Linda’s Most Excellent latkes Cranberry-pineapple relish Cinnamon applesauce Zisse rossel Weequahic salad Raspberry Kijafa glazed fujis and apricots Linda’s Most Excellent bonbons et patisseries Tagamet après diner If you happen to be in town, please do drop by. Invitations and RSVP’s are no longer an issue. Blessings from SC, where the white sheet is considered an article of clothing.

Have yet to find that as synonym for pitscha. In our family, pitscha was sometimes called "fussnoga" ((but pronounced Litvakally something like "fitchanoggie"), which is German/Russian for "foot-foot." Good luck. Interestingly, Chlodna Street in the Warsaw Ghetto figured prominently in the saga of the martyred hero, Dr. Janusz Korczak, may his memory be for a blessing. "Wish I was an L.A. latke, 'bout to make the most out of canola, I'd ease myself down, comin' up brown . . . " (Can YOU name that tune?)

Happy Erev Chanukah, Kinderlach! Had the honor of playing Santa last night for a buncha homeless kiddies in Anderson, SC. (Linda is Program Director for the Upstate Homeless Coalition.) You cannot imagine the nachas. OK, OK, it was a mitzvah. Forgeddaboutit. But, hokey smokes, Bullwinkle, you shoulda seen THE SPREAD! Wumma! Incredibly Southern with the most at-home soulful under/over-tone -- Oy, the turkey (they'd never be caught dead eating that nouveau deep-fried crapola) OK, the ham The myriad variety pecan-crowned sweet-potato casseroles Likewise the cornbread stuffing The REAL potato salad (step aside Zabar's) The REAL chopped slaw (ditto) The yellow-squash casseroles The every-imaginable-genus-of-sweet-pickled-veggies The drown-me-momma gravy The marshmallow-studded sweet-potato pie The insulin-stat pecan pie This two-foot deep goo, Trifle a la Lulu Roman . . . oy . . . oy . . . oy . . . ah . . .ah . . . AH!!! (Interpolate your own assumption here.) Alas, the vision alone had to suffice. For, Santa must remain in character so as not to disillusion these already badly disillusioned kiddies. After all, do you ever see Santa doff his hat, roll up his sleeves, bare his hammy arms and mess his beard with biscuits and red-eye gravy? Hell, he even eats his milk and cookies when no one is looking. Then again, I do have incriminating pix of these bootylicious mommas cuddling up on Santa's lap . . . but only after the kiddies had their turn. Take that, Jacko! So, I consoled myself by coming home, washing the white gook out of my nearly white beard and eating half a tray of the most excellent simple, understated chocolate fudge . . . and woke up this morning with a fasting blood sugar of 300. Sic semper Santa.

Sorry for any confusion. I'd tell the longer (zzzzzz) story, but suffice to say that I typically revert to waxing romantic with Yiddishisms when I feel particularly comfortable -- and talking with nice, appreciative people about the cuisine that I love is about as comfortable as I get. To the point: nachas = NAH-khes = pride (especially the type you get from grandchildren) cholent = CHO-l'nt = (you'll just have to wait for my forthcoming column!) flanken = FLAHN-kin = short ribs jakoi = JAH-koy = (kin to cholent, you'll just have to wait for my forthcoming column) balabos = bal-a-BUS = master of the house, major domo freilachen = FRAY-lakh'n = happy lichtigen = LIKH-ti-gehn = radiant

You guys are such a hunka-hunka burnin' nachas! Thanks for your kind birthday wishes. You have become such a wonderful bunch of new friends! Just got back yesterday evening from Ann Arbor, visiting with Joey, Jess and baby Sim (my sweet Shimon'del, named after my late father). Many delights including things culinary: Joey made a wicked gravlax, binding the curing slurry with cognac, smooth like Shimon'del tiny round tush. For Shabbos lunch he made a nonpareil, however bowel-irritating, cholent. You're gonna hafta take my word for this, but meatless for a vegan friend, and you did not miss the flanken at all. I contributed my (actually, Rebbetzin Silver's) jakoi for the top. You'll hafta read my forthcoming epistle on cholent for the details. Saturday evening we took respite from Jewish cuisine. I made glazed red cabbage and fuji apples, a sweet potato puree with crisped onions and candied pecan bits, a most delicate piece of grilled sea bass and a simple tomato-vidalia-basil salad drizzled with balsamic. Ate twice at Zingerman's. Those of you who know the place will agree that it is indescribably, closest to a smaller version of Zabar's, but college-town funky and philosophically akin to early Ben and Jerry's. The balabos, Ari Weinzweig, a fellow Chicagoan and complete mensch, has written a great book on choosing and working with finer ingredients -- worth the investment. AND, he is an eGullet reader! Enough self-indulgence and sanctimony. Back to the humility of folding the wash. A freilachen, lichtigen Chanukah to everyone! - Kugelman

Re. toasting: Correct, o Wise One. Whole grain, to my taste, is even better. And another perk: You can buy whole grain by the pound on the cheap at your local healthy store, rather than at a signficant premium for those cutesy li'l cellophane-windowed boxes. Ach, I know . . . tradition. For those who insist, I'll give you a pass on this one. After all, I still hand-grate my potatoes for kugel and latkes. My mother's answer to frugality with the dinner items that we could ill afford: "Shtop zich nisht. Ess mit brait." ("Don't stuff yourself. Eat it with bread.") Rabbi Ribeye

Honored by your cordial invitation. Just gonna hafta be patient for this one, kinderlach. Case notes on my intimate encounters with pitcha are forthcoming in my column, "These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things." If ya enjoy my two paragraphs on it there, I might entertain expanding it into an entire treatise, kinda "Massechet Baba Pitcha," for you errant Talmudists. Just a teaser: I am likely one of a mere handful of American-born Jewish toddlers ever to be tied up and force-fed pitcha . . . and yet it's true. (S&M folks: You can do better. Trust me.) For now, ess gezund, fress gezundt, and thank your lucky six-pointed stars that we have yet to supplant a good sour pickle with kimchee. Everything in its place . . . Rabbi Ribeye